


Our Hearts Beat as One

by spookyserpent



Series: Dying is Easy, Living is So Much Harder [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Found Family, Historical Inaccuracy, Immortal Husbands, Knights - Freeform, Lots of kissing, M/M, Soulmates, True Love, moments in history, poetry references, some racist/homophobic undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyserpent/pseuds/spookyserpent
Summary: For centuries, they have fought together, lived together and died together. Nicky exists in the marrow of Joe’s bones, safely secured in Joe’s rib cage, placed delicately by Joe’s beating heart.Looking at Nicky now, he can see the same thoughts of undying love and want echoed back.“I love you,” Nicky says, soft and easy.“I love you,” Joe says, soft and easy.Two hearts, two bodies, one soul.[Or, five times Nicky and Joe visited Malta and how their love evolved.]
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Dying is Easy, Living is So Much Harder [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829095
Comments: 37
Kudos: 597





	Our Hearts Beat as One

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to everyone who enjoyed my other work, I love all of you, omg. 
> 
> This is canon typical violence and death mentions, so be warned but mostly it’s just Nicky and Joe being in love. 
> 
> Can be read as a continuation from Death, like Love, Waits for No One, or as a separate fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! :)

The first time they head to Malta, it’s not known as Malta and they still don’t trust one another. 

Nicolò spends half the time there watching Yusuf out of the corner of his eye. The man speaks freely to the people, his voice soothing and charming. Nicolò has yet to fully comprehend the language - although he has picked up a few choice words and can understand the looks and harsh comments Yusuf occasionally gives him. 

It’s the first time he wants Yusuf. 

They make camp on a cliff, overlooking the calm ocean. The fire is warm and brewed alcohol is enough to have Nicolò’s head drifting. 

In the moonlight, with the amber flames illuminating Yusuf’s carefree face as he chows down on a freshly caught rabbit, Nicolò is captured by him. His hands as he handles his food, the way his brown eyes light up with every flicker of the fire, his smile as he recounts a tale of a battle he won. Nicolò has already forgotten what he’s said, too busy staring at the man before him. 

Nicolò has had women before. He knows that, especially in wartimes, the loneliness and companionship can lead some knights to huddle with one another. He also knows that a few of them don’t just huddle for warmth. 

He could understand then, when the adrenaline of a win was still pounding in his veins, when a knight would grip the back of his skull, pull him towards them as they cheered, when the nights grew cold and they had been on the journey with no women in sight for miles. 

Now though, as he gazes at Yusuf, all he can think about is whether his lips are chapped, his hands as callused as Nicolò’s. Would that first kiss be as much as a fight as their other interactions? 

Yusuf laughs at his own joke and Nicolò startles, smiles and nods so that Yusuf will continue, the fear of being caught freezing his wave of thoughts. 

He turns on his back, looks to the stars instead, nausea building in his stomach. These thoughts are not to be had, especially when projected onto the enemy. 

Only, with a smile as bright as the stars above, hands as solid and secure as the ground below, Nicolò can’t see his enemy. He sees someone he could give his life to, someone to fight for, someone to care about.

He aches for it, the bloodshed, the war, the power. Yusuf wouldn’t yield to him, hasn’t in the years he’s spent with him on this journey to find the women in their shared dreams. 

Closing his eyes, he drifts into an easy slumber, the melodic tone of Yusuf lulling him, the thought of bodies pressed against each other pulling Nicolò under into sleep. 

•••

The second time they visit Malta, the people have changed. They are no longer Yusuf’s people, they’re Nicolò’s. 

Yusuf should feel worried, maybe even scared. He doesn’t. Not with Nicolò beside him, not when the knight has proved himself an ally, a friend. 

He can still feel the heat of Nicolò’s hands in his hair, the pressure of his mouth pressed against his own, the breathlessness left behind. They haven’t spoke about the kiss. It’s been three months and they sleep beside one another but they don’t discuss the battle. 

It stings, burns, the wound of his heart festering slightly. Yusuf ignores it. He’s good at that, what with the practice of the years in which he could feel Nicolò’s eyes surveying him, the smiles directed at him before he could fully catch them, the heat of the stares. 

At the start, he assumed that meant Nicolò was waiting for the perfect time to strike, to catch him off guard. Now, after that battle, he knows just what Nicolò is thinking, even if he doesn’t ask for it or make any indication that anything is going to come of it. 

So they find a tavern and Yusuf ignores his emotions and ignores the way Nicolò keeps catching himself from looking at Yusuf and ignores the other, more hostile stares, of the knights around him. 

He doesn’t care for them. They can’t exactly kill him. He almost wants the excuse to fight, to feel the rush of blood. At least then, he will be able to forget Nicolò’s mouth, his hands, his sharp jawline- 

Someone says something and he blinks up from his drink, finding Nicolò across the room and some knights laughing around him. He shrugs them off, focuses back on his drink. 

The knights don’t appreciate his disregard if the vile words they spit at him are anything to go by. He stands, raises his hands as he backs away and turns to the door. If they’re going to fight, it’s going to be outside, away from the others. He may not be able to die but he doesn’t really want to. 

He’s only able to take three steps before there’s a man in front of him, a mean glare to his eye and Yusuf knows. He just knows. This isn’t going to end well for him. Nicolò wouldn’t defend him to his own people and Yusuf can’t lay a hand on anyone or else they’ll all take the initiative to jump him. 

Pulling himself up, he prepares himself for the first strike, the pain. He will go down fighting. He twists his lips into an obviously cocky smirk and gestures for the man to attack. 

A sword cuts itself into his line of sight, a voice from beside him calmly says before anything can happen, “I wouldn’t. Not if you want all of your insides to remain inside of you.” 

The sword rests itself against the other man’s throat and Yusuf turns, will always turn to that voice, to find Nicolò there. His eyes are clouded and harsh, a storm instead of their usual calm sea. His hand is as steady as his voice. 

Something inside Yusuf bursts, erupts, drowning him in emotions he can’t name. He will not survive but then again, he doesn’t want to. His heart shatters, pounds in his ears. Nicolò is here. Nicolò is defending him. Nicolò is willing to slit the throat of one of his own for him. 

Yusuf makes a deal with himself then. He will follow this man to the ends of the earth if he decrees it. He will die for this man and he will kill for him. He will live out his immortal life tethered to this man, for eternity if need be.

The man laughs. “Nico, you would kill me but not this animal?”

Nicolò’s grip tightens on the sword, his eyes turning from storm to ice. Even when they were killing one another, Nicolò never looked at him like this. Another part of Yusuf burns, makes him want to drop to his knees for this man. They may not agree on Gods but he will gladly pray to the man before him, will worship him as if he were a God. 

“I do not want to. But I will.” Voice eerily calm, Nicolò presses the sword closer to the man’s throat. “Let us leave. Or I will cut each one of you down.” 

It’s a threat, a promise and Yusuf feels everything inside of him erupt into flames, scorching him alive. He wants to slaughter the men and then kiss Nicolò, wants to taste the anger on his tongue, wants to let it consume him. 

The man, unfortunately, steps away. Nicolò drops his sword, thanks the owner for their drinks and then gestures for Yusuf to walk in front of him, protecting his back. Yusuf can barely breathe but he somehow walks out, to their horses. 

Silence surrounds them as they ride out of the village. It remains, loud and glaringly obvious as they set up camp on the same cliffside from decades previous. It rests heavily on them until Yusuf grabs Nicolò by his armour and hauls him against a tree. 

There’s a dagger pressed against his throat and he doesn’t care. He leans ever closer, relishing in the bite of the blade, their faces inches, centimetres, millimetres from one another. 

“Thank you,” he tells Nicolò, in his own language, then in Nicolò’s, then in the other languages he’s learnt. The blade falls from Nicolò’s hands. They’re not close enough and the clothes and armour between them leaves Yusuf cold. 

He wants to bury himself inside Nicolò’s chest, to feel the beat of his heart like his own, to see the thoughts in his brain and align them with his own. 

He wants and he wants and he wants. 

Then there’s a hand gripping his hair, pulling his head back sharply and their roles are reversed. Before he can comment, Nicolò is kissing him, hard and violent and dizzying. 

Yusuf takes what is given and gives it back. He bites at Nicolo’s lips, runs his hands through his locks and tugs, pulling him closer, closer, closer. 

In the end, the gasps and the moans and the sighs become shared. Yusuf doesn’t know where he begins and Nicolò ends. The sun dips, painting them both golden and he wants to die like this, with Nicolò pressed against him, their mouths connecting, their breaths mingled, their hearts pounding in the same rhythm. 

Yusuf learns the sharpness of Nicolò’s jaw is almost as sharp as his tongue, his sword. He learns that Nicolò fights just how he kisses, hard and quick and passionate. He learns that Nicolò wants to worship him, too, and then spend the early night, basked in firelight and starlight praying to one another, knees digging harshly into the earth below. 

When dawn breaks, Yusuf’s back is pressed against the tree trunk, Nicolò curled in his arms, their legs intertwined, Nicolò’s sword within arm’s reach. 

It is the first time they sleep beside each other. It is not the last. 

•••

The third time they visit Malta, they are not Yusuf and Nicolò. They are also not alone. 

Andromache is in mourning, with no records of Quynh on the ship being found. She is angry and upset and so they take her to Malta. 

The people have once again changed but they don’t stare angrily at Joe anymore. They merely look at them as the stroll into the village and then go back to their conversations. 

Festivals and carnivals are expected for the week ahead which is one of the reasons they asked Andromache to come with them. 

Nicky watches her, the sadness that leaks from her in waves. For the first time since meeting her, he can see the age on her face. The dark circles beneath her eyes, the permanent frown to her lips, the barely noticeable shake to her hands. 

Joe brushes up against him and Nicky relaxes back, knowing without even looking at him, that they both share the same worry. For Andromache, for Quynh’s disappearance, for the talk of Lykon’s death, for themselves. 

The wounds of them killing each other, once a joke, once healed, have now been freshly torn open. Even if Andromache says they couldn’t have killed each other for real, for being too young, Nicky can’t stop imagining it. 

Joe’s vacant eyes as he bleeds out because of Nicky. Joe’s harsh exhales as his life is stolen from him by Nicky. Joe, unmoving, unblinking, cold and dead because of Nicky. 

Every time they wade into battle, there’s the unspoken question hanging between them: is this the last time? 

Nicky doesn’t know what he would do if Joe died without him. His thoughts freeze him and he sags more into Joe, a lump stuck in his throat. 

Even if death doesn’t separate them, life might. Quynh proves that. She is lost to the endless ocean, constantly drowning, over and over again and the people who threw her overboard are either already dead or simply have no knowledge of her whereabouts. Nicky thinks that might be worse than death. 

He tilts his head and Joe smiles down at him, hand quickly shooting forward to squeeze Nicky’s before dropping. Andromache walks towards them, looking like she too has been lost at sea, desperately searching for a way home, and gestures to the forming crowd. 

“I don’t think singing and dancing will improve my mood.” 

Joe grins at her, optimistic and carefree. Under the weight of his carefully constructed joy, her lips tug upwards briefly. Nicky counts it as a small victory. 

“At least until the sun goes down,” he bargains and she sighs, knowing this is one battle she will not win. 

So they wait for the main floats, listen to the joyful songs and allow the music to take them away, to a land where they are free and without worries. 

Nicky spends most of the time watching Joe as he dances with the locals, smile so genuine it physically pains Nicky. His laugh is loud and boisterous and even with the interested, heated stares of some of the women - and the men, who are failing at being subtle - his gaze never wavers from Nicky. 

A slow heat builds in Nicky at the loving stare. While Nicky has never been the artistic one, he’s never quite got used to being the muse. 

Their many hidden caves and houses are filled with mementos of their travels but they’re also filled with Joe’s art. His drawings of Andromache and Quynh, the occasional ones of Lykon that the women were able to describe to him. 

Then there are the drawings and carvings and poetry of Nicky. Of his face, his body, the emotions Joe experiences in his presence, his absence. Nicky is far from narcissistic but those pieces of artwork are his favourite. 

At his stare, Joe excuses himself and approaches. “You are not enjoying yourself,” he points out and Nicky hazards a look around the open space, at the population gleefully singing, dancing, drinking. 

“I cannot, knowing Andromache is unable to.” 

Joe places a hand at his neck and Nicky leans into it, knowing the affection will be missed by the people, easily written off in their drunken stupor. 

“Nicky, my dearest Nicolò,” Joe breathes and then tugs him to his side, other hand pointing near a tavern, “you worry too much.” 

Following Joe’s finger, Nicky is faced with Andromache, face absent of her usual sadness. Surrounded by women, she has both of her hands clasped with theirs, skirt swinging as she is pulled into the dancing. Her hair blows across her face as a woman mutters something and she laughs, loud and joyous and completely at ease. 

Nicky blinks at the display and Joe laughs in his ear. “They have her on the wine.” 

Andromache must sense the eyes on her because she tilts her head and their eyes meet. Her smile wavers and then grows and Nicky has a sudden wave of understanding. 

She may be mourning and crushed by guilt but she cannot let the emotion consume her. Not with the smiling faces of the locals around her. For tonight, she will dance and sing and imagine Quynh beside her. Tomorrow, she will return to trying to find her. For if it consumes her, she will never be able to find her. 

Andromache may be as lost as Quynh but at least her feet are on solid ground, with Nicky and Joe beside her, ready and waiting to wade into any battle she presents. If she too were to become lost, Quynh’s disappearance, her life, would have been for nothing. 

Nicky smiles back, turns to Joe and gently brushes their lips together. He is afraid, but he is not lost. As long as this man is beside him, he will never be lost and if the day comes in which they are separated, then Nicky will move heaven and hell to be reunited with him. 

For the night, they dance and sing and kiss, hands forever linked together. They meet with Andromache and pull her into their swaying, breaths reeking of alcohol and grapes, sweat clinging to their backs. 

When they make it to their room, Joe has Nicky against the wall, Nicky’s fingernails clawing down Joe’s back. 

Nicky will never leave him. No God or devil or person will ever separate them so long as his heart pumps and his lungs breathe. Joe is his just like he is Joe’s. 

When they wake, sore and content, Nicky is certain that when Death finally comes for him, it won’t be leaving with one soul. Joe will be following, too. 

For even Death cannot sever their bond. 

•••

The fourth time they visit Malta, it’s independent and they’re now a family of four. 

Booker likes the sun and the alcohol. Joe can’t judge him for that. Andy finds herself laughing at a piece of artwork that clearly has both Joe and Nicky’s face depicted on it. 

The only reason they’re there is because, after a particularly long two world wars, Nicky explained that he needed at least a weeks vacation before he would fight anything else. Joe completely agreed and even Booker looked a bit feral around the eyes so Andy had relented. 

And if anyone questioned Nicky’s motives for buying an extremely large amount of baklava then Joe would have to accidentally push them off a cliff. 

So they spend their days at the beach, exploring the ruins that they lived through, trying hard to not laugh at the many historical discussions taking place. 

Joe can still remember the first night he and Nicky spent on that cliff, untrusting of the other but also in desperate need of someone who understood what they were going through. He can still remember the bite of a blade at his throat, the bite of Nicky’s kiss, the bite of tree bark in his back. He can still remember the dancing and singing and ease of Andy’s smile. 

Malta is the same but also different. The ruins are a reminder of the past and the cliffs still sit, watching the ocean. The people, however, have always changed and the language is now a hybrid of the country’s that stayed there. 

The bedsheets are also of a much higher standard but then again, Joe doesn’t care if the sheets are made of dirt or scratching blanket so long as Nicky is lying beside him. 

“You are thinking too much,” Nicky murmurs into his neck, trailing kisses down, down, down. 

Joe sighs, fingers running through his soft hair. “I am thinking of you, and I can never think of you too much.” 

“Romantic.” Nicky huffs a laugh against his skin and then proceeds to drop his weight, leaving Joe wheezing. “What’s wrong?” 

Joe could easily say nothing. Nicky would let him. They may have spent centuries by the other’s side but they’ve never needed words. If the problem is big enough, Nicky would be able to work it out in a week tops. 

Joe cups Nicky’s jaw, looks into his stormy eyes and says, “a feeling. Something is coming.” 

Nicky nods, turns his head to kiss Joe’s palm. “I believe we all feel it. Andy doesn’t want to read into it too much.” 

“I cannot lose you,” Joe says and Nicky sends him a sharp look because he knows. Joe doesn’t, has never needed to, explain himself. 

They are becoming a thousand years old and Andy has shown them just how hard that can be. She tries to remain optimistic but one look at Booker’s grief, too young to die and yet too old to want to live, and they all feel adrift. 

With each year, their combined clock ticks down. One of these days, they will be injured and they will not heal. Or worse, they will be killed and won’t wake up. 

Joe can see it: Nicky’s body falling as he’s shot, stabbed, blown up, not getting back up. Every time he panics and every time he is overwhelmed by relief when Nicky’s eyes shoot open. 

He prays that when that day comes, the wound will kill them both. Deep down, he knows that he will not leave this man, not in life and certainly not in Death.

Nicky drags delicate fingertips over his cheek, his eyebrow, down to his lips and jaw. “And I cannot lose you.” 

For a few moments, they simply breathe as one, hearts beating as one.

Joe has spent centuries trying to articulate what his emotions and thoughts are when it comes to Nicky. He has waxed poetry about his sea-like eyes, calming but turbulent when faced with a fight, has drawn his sharp, angular face more times than he can count, has moulded clay in the shape of his shoulders, his ribs, his hips. 

And yet, he can never fully express himself for what he feels cannot he fully expressed. He would cut a limb off, blind himself, gladly hand his soul over to Death so long as Nicky was happy. Seeing the up-quirk of his lips when he’s amused, the furrow between his brow when he’s concentrating, the clench of his long fingers when he’s angry, leave Joe more enraptured of the man on top of him. 

His smile burns him and leads him like a moth to the flame. His laugh calls to him and leaves him shattering at his very core. His everything makes Joe breathless and in awe. 

For centuries, they have fought together, lived together and died together. Nicky exists in the marrow of Joe’s bones, safely secured in Joe’s rib cage, placed delicately by Joe’s beating heart. 

Looking at Nicky now, he can see the same thoughts of undying love and want echoed back. 

“I love you,” Nicky says, soft and easy. 

“I love you,” Joe says, soft and easy. 

Two hearts, two bodies, one soul. 

•••

The fifth time they visit Malta, their family has changed. Booker has been exiled, Andy is mortal and Nile is the new baby of the group. 

“I promised you Malta,” Joe says to Nile, spreading his arms when they approach the ruins, “here’s Malta.” 

Nile smiles at them, young and aware of the brutal world. Beside her, Andy closes her eyes, breathes in the air and Nicky can see the tension ease from her shoulders. 

Joe looks to Nicky, Nicky turns to Joe. 

“Remind me,” Joe says, smile cocky and Nicky can’t help but grin back, “which time in Malta are we replicating?” 

Nicky just stares at him, heatedly and full of passion and promises. Joe laughs, grabs his hand and squeezes. 

Nile jumps beside them. “You guys were here when these were built, weren’t you?” 

“No, but Andy-“ Nicky starts and Andy immediately shakes her head. 

“I don’t know if I’m that old.”

“Coming from Miss Too Old,” Nile snaps back and Andy rolls her eyes. 

“It’s best not to bring up history.” She gestures to the ruins in front of them. “Considering a lot of the historians don’t really know what actually happened.” 

Joe snorts and Nicky turns his head, pretends to be focused on the architecture. He can feel Nile’s inquisitive look as she flicks her eyes between them. 

Then, with a yell, she hisses, “wait a second. You mean that history I was taught in a school isn’t the truth?” 

Joe grins at her, all shark-teeth and wild edge to his eyes. “Let’s just say the Renaissance artists were amazing people, who had amazing hands.” 

Nicky can’t stop the blush rising to his cheeks even if he prayed to every God imaginable. Nile’s eyes widen as Andy groans aloud. 

“I swear,” Andy mutters, turns so that they both can see her roll her eyes. “I’m going to check out the beach. Nile, unless you want history ruined for you, I suggest you come with me.” 

Nile blinks at them, then nods and lets Andy tug her away. Joe shifts to face Nicky. “I can’t wait to tell her about Michelangelo.”

Nicky huffs a laugh. “Andy said she’s knowledgeable about art. She liked her Rodin.”

Joe closes his eyes and smiles, small but one of Nicky’s favourites, one that he only shows when he’s comfortable, vulnerable. “I missed it.” 

“As did I.” Nicky moves closer, until their arms are knocking together with each breath. He looks at Joe, his face open and calm. A warmth settles in Nicky’s stomach, his chest. 

Joe blinks, eyes sparkling when they notice Nicky staring at him. “We should come here more often.” 

“We should.”

They stare at one another and it would take the world fracturing in half to pull them apart. 

“I have loved you for centuries,” Joe says, quietly, “and I will continue to love you for centuries. I cannot imagine a life without you nor do I want to. Every time I wake up besides you, I still cannot believe my luck.” 

Nicky’s heart pounds in his chest. “You say this like I do not feel my mouth becoming dry in your presence, like my heart does not beat out of my chest every time you smile at me. I only know what love is because of you. My life is incomplete without you.” 

The kiss is short but all-consuming, drowning the both of them in nothing but love, warm and pure. 

“Lovebirds!” Nile calls, hopping past the ruins, grinning at the both of them, ice cream cone in her hand. “Have you tried the ice cream? Andy won’t stop writing love sonnets about baklava and I’m seriously worried about her mental health.” 

Nicky laughs as Joe says, “if you ever need to grovel, baklava is the way to Andy’s heart.” 

“And no,” Nicky adds, smoothly, easily, “we haven’t tried the ice cream.” 

Walking to beachfront, Nicky can see Andy lying in a beach chair, sunglasses on and smile on her face. All the while, Nile bombards them with the pros and cons of all the ice cream flavours and how Mint Choc Chip is god tier. 

Nicky looks to his right, catches Joe’s eye and smiles. This is their family. It’s a little broken and strained without Booker and Nicky has a feeling it’s going to get worse before it gets better but Andy is smiling and Nile is here and Joe is grinning at him like he personally placed all of the stars in the sky. 

Nicky feels complete, whole and the look Joe gives him, shows he feels the same. 

They’re home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> I demand a sequel because, well, I love them, your Honour. 
> 
> If I’ve made any historical mistakes, you can correct me because I am a bit of a history nerd ;D


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